Carol grabs my hand and leads me over to the bar, where Remo is having a lively discussion with the bartender. They throw back bright orange cocktails, laughing.
“Sì, sì, certo,” Remo says. He gestures to the bartender, then turns to greet us. “Buonasera, Carol, Katy.” He kisses us both twice on each cheek. He smells like cigarettes and oranges.
“Hi,” I say. “Ciao.”
“Vuoi da bere?” Remo makes a drinking motion with his thumb, then claps his forehead. “Ah, would you like a drink?”
“Vodka on the rocks, two limes,” Carol says. She shimmies her torso a little. The top she is wearing falls off one shoulder. I see Remo notice.
“A glass of white wine,” I say, and he turns back to the bartender.
Next to me, Carol starts moving to the music, free and loose. We are both filled to the brim with wine. She raises her hands up and throws her head back, shaking out her hair. I watch her, transfixed. So does Remo. He touches her shoulder, and I look away.
Part of me wants to take her home, to not let any man who is not my father even look at her, and part of me wants to pull her aside and explain to her what happens next. That she’ll meet my dad. That she’ll get married. That she’ll have me. That she’ll be a wonderful wife and mother, but that this time in her life is fleeting, almost gone. That this is her chance, while she is unencumbered, to be young and free and wild. To have a fling with a hot Italian because she is in one of the most romantic places in the whole world, and because shouldn’t that be reason enough.
Eric and I weren’t really partiers. Not in college, and not in New York, either. While friends were going to the Meatpacking District on Friday, we’d have people over for game nights, or wine tastings in our living/dining room. For a while we lived on Bleecker Street, right above a boutique that closed shortly after we moved in, and once we managed to get the keys to the space in between tenants. We threw a dinner party there—with folding tables and pizza from Rubirosa. People who walked by the window thought we were an art installation.
But I’ve done so little of this—this kind of fun, this kind of abandon. I feel the decade of playing grown-up clawing at me, all the years not spent getting drunk on dance floors presenting themselves here, tonight.
I lift my hair off my neck, taking the hair tie from my wrist and wrapping it back in a bun. I can feel beads of sweat down my back. There’s no air-conditioning here, and the body count grows as the night wears on. The place is practically packed now.
Remo hands us our drinks. The glass of wine is sweating, too. It feels cool and damp in my hands, and I press it to my cheek, and then gulp it down.
“Is there water?” I ask Remo.
He points to the end of the bar where there is a jug set up with cups next to it. I make my way over and drink three glasses. The water is cold and satisfying. It tastes like taking a shower. I bring one full cup over to Carol.
“Ah!” she says. “Water, praise you.” She downs it. “I was just telling Remo about dinner.”
I point to my distended stomach. “So good.”
Remo laughs. “Food is for eating,” he says. “And music for dancing.”
He takes Carol’s hand and leads her away from the bar to the center of the room, through the gathered drinkers. A few couples are locked together. Two men who look to be no more than eighteen bob their shoulders to the music. Remo twirls Carol and then lets go, leaving her to spin.
The music kicks up, a remake of an eighties pop song. It gets louder. I watch Carol, eyes closed, moving to the rhythm.
I make my way to her. I take her hand. I begin to move to the beat, not letting go of her fingers. We sway and jump and dance together, like that. It feels like we’re the only two people on the dance floor. It feels like we’re the only two people in the world. Two young women having the time of their life on the Italian shore.
For the first time since she died—maybe long before that—I feel totally free. Not weighed down by any decisions I’ve already made and not constrained by what’s to come. I am fully and completely here. Sweat drenched, wine drunk, present.
“Remo is so into you!” I call when he goes to get a refill on drinks. Carol crushes a bill into his hand before he departs.
“I insist,” she says.
“No, he’s not,” she says. She brushes me off. “I told you. We’re friends.”
“Trust me,” I say. “He is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
Carol shakes her head. “You’re drunk.”